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time, as if he’d been through a lot and didn’t want to talk about it.
    “Shit,” he muttered as he walked by.
    “Hey!” the guy behind the counter called out. “Hey man, I told you yesterday. You’re not supposed to use the bathroom unless you’re a student or a customer.”
    Ignoring him, the bearded man pushed open the glass door and stepped out into the sun.
    “How do you know he’s not a student?” Tragedy demanded. “He’s wearing Dexter sweatpants.”

    The guy placed an enormous cup of coffee on the shiny black countertop, squirted a dollop of whipped cream on top, and sprinkled it with cocoa powder before securing the lid.
    “We only opened a few days ago and that guy’s been in here every day to use the bathroom. He never buys anything. He’s always wearing the same clothes. He always looks a little dirty and acts a little weird. He’s no student.” He slipped a cardboard sleeve around the cup and handed it to her. “One venti mocha cap with two shots and two biscotti,” he announced, pushing the cellophane-wrapped cookies across the counter. He winked. “No charge.”
    The coffee weighed a ton. Tragedy grabbed the cookies and tucked them into her back pocket. “You tell your bosses the next time I’m in here I want to see some fair trade fucking coffee,” she reminded him.
    The bearded man was sitting on a bench in a sunny spot outside the Student Union, reading his book.
    “Hey,” she greeted him. “I’m Tragedy. What’s your name?”
    He looked up, his gigantic light blue eyes staring without seeing. His face and hands were dirty, and he was younger than she had first thought, but older than her brother was. His parka had a feather-oozing gash in the chest and must have been hotter than hell. The book in his hands was Dianetics, by L. Ron Hubbard. She recognized the erupting volcano on its cover from a 60 Minutes episode she’d watched one Sunday night. The report was all about why Scientology was so appealing to celebrities, who tended to have “lifestyle problems.” The Church of Scientology encouraged fucked-up people to delve into their pasts and “audit” their shitty memories or “engrams” to get “clear.” The thing was, you had to pay them to do the auditing because, goodness knows, delving into your past is not something you shouldtry on your own at home. Just another totally wack concept brought to you by the modern world of Planet Starbucks.
    The guy was still staring at her. Or staring through her. She didn’t mind. At least he wasn’t staring at her boobs.
    “Patrick,” he said finally. “Pink Patrick.”
    “Here.” She offered him the mochaccino. As with everything, now that she had it, she didn’t really want it. “Take this too,” she said, handing him a biscotti. “Sorry, the other one’s for my brother.”
    Pink Patrick tore open the wrapper with his teeth and devoured the biscotti.
    “Fuck it,” she said, and handed him the second one. Adam wasn’t hungry, not like this guy. The dude in the café was probably right. He wasn’t a student.
    Adam observed the proceedings from across the road. He didn’t like the guy’s ripped parka or how he was talking to his sister without looking at her. He didn’t like his beard or his dirty boots. He didn’t like how she’d given him all her food, especially not after she’d taken so much trouble to procure it. He tooted the horn again.
    The bearded guy shot to his feet and lunged toward the car. “Hey! What’s your problem?” he shouted as he stormed across the road. “Is there a problem?”
    Adam locked the door. His window was wide open, but he didn’t want to roll it up for fear of pissing the guy off even further. He started the engine, revving the gas pedal with what he hoped was a menacing roar. There were crumbs in the guy’s beard and his blue eyes were round and fierce. He looked like Kris Kristofferson on crystal meth.
    “Don’t worry about him,” Tragedy called out as she